


In Medias Res

by Nahara



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: HIV/AIDS, M/M, Old people falling in love, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-07
Updated: 2012-04-07
Packaged: 2017-11-03 05:12:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/377672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nahara/pseuds/Nahara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur remembers his past life at the age of sixty-six. It's not too late to find the other side of his coin, right? (Modern AU)</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Medias Res

We love life  
not because  
we are used  
to living  
but because  
we are used  
to loving

_Friedrich Nietzsche_

  


Arthur is sixty-six when he remembers. He’s sitting in a hospital corridor in a hard plastic chair waiting for the nurse to tell him the results of his blood test. He knows he’s fine – he always has been. Fit as a fiddle, thank you very much. But he must be careful, it’s his age they say, as though he can’t count and forgotten every one of those sixty-six years. He hasn’t forgotten the sixty-six, just the previous ten incarnations. Until now. Hell only knows what triggers its return; Arthur has never been able to find any correlation as to how and why he remembers – if he even does.

Suddenly he’s more than just grumpy old Lieutenant Colonel Arthur Pendragon, OAP with a stiff back and far too much time on his hands. He’s ten other people all clamouring to talk. They want to tell him the story of their lives – his lives. But the most important of the lives is that first, when he was a king. Arthur can feel it, the memory, shifting into his throat and choking him. He won’t admit that there are tears, but his eyes are bright. It’s alright if people see and misunderstand, after all, hospitals are made for crying.

He can see fragments of people: Gwen’s fingers on his arm, the tendons in Uther’s neck as he turns away, Mordred’s sword cutting through him. Then his mind is being bombarded with memories which are more than fragments, memories of Merlin, the blue eyed warlock with his laugh and his fingers – clumsy with everything except Arthur’s heart.

Oh god, _Merlin_.

Arthur bows his head, massaging his eyes with the heels of hands. Where's Merlin? Would it be too late to find him?

In his mind’s eye, Arthur can see one of the many incarnations of Merlin. It was during the First World War and Merlin lied about his age – just like Arthur – and somehow they’d found each other and remembered together. They’d not been given a chance to share anything in that life. They’d stood side by side, brushing dirt covered fingers together, waiting for the orders to advance into the rain of bullets. Arthur had whispered, _it’s too late_ , but Merlin had smiled, fingers curling around Arthur’s and said, _it’s never too late_.

 

*

The nurse appears eventually, smiling and saying that Arthur’s blood work looks fine. Arthur could have bloody well told her that without the use of any needles. Then the nurse drops the bomb and says there are only a _few_ more tests to do. They want to check his heart while he’s here, do an echo cardiogram. Arthur wants to tell her where to stick it, he needs to go home and _think_ , but the memories of a scholar with heart cancer whispers in his ear and Arthur complies.

Now he’s lost. Arthur is sure the nurse had said the fifth floor.

He wanders up and down, looking for any sort of signage to indicate where the hell he is. Arthur’s always hated hospitals and their long, windowless beige corridors. It isn’t the claustrophobic nature of the place – he’d been a Lt Colonel in the royal navy for Christ sake, he’d not been allowed to know what claustrophobia was – but it had that impersonal, sterilised air that made his skin crawl.

A door opens and a doctor in a white medical coat steps out. Arthur is about to hail him and ask how to get to Cardio, but the doctor turns back to the open doorway with a smile, laughing as he says,

“I’ll take that into consideration, Mr Emrys.”

Arthur stops dead. Emrys? It was too unusual a name for it to be coincidence. But he never found Merlin this quickly, ever. Was it possible?

The doctor closes the door and sees Arthur. He frowns. The name embroidered into the white coat reads: Dr. M. J. Hyatt. He has a lot of dark hair and thick glasses that make his eyes appear twice as big and twice as disapproving.

“Can I help you?” Dr Hyatt asks briskly.

“I’ve come to see Merlin,” Arthur says without thinking. The doctor’s eyebrows go up in surprise.

“Mr Emrys doesn’t get many visitors.” He gives Arthur an assessing once-over.

“He’s… an old friend,” Arthur says seriously.

“Well,” Dr Hyatt nods with a savage, fake smile, the kind that people wear to hide something unbearable. “I think he could really do with a friend.”

Arthur nods not asking the doctor to elaborate. In truth he’s afraid, doesn’t really want to know. Doctor Hyatt clasps a sympathetic hand to Arthur’s shoulder then disappears down the corridor.

Only one of the beds in the room is occupied and the man sitting in it is old and frail and skinny – but undoubtedly Merlin. Whatever life they live Merlin can’t outrun those ears. Unlike Arthur he hasn’t gone completely white, his hair is still dark and shot through with silver. His cheekbones protrude dangerously and he’s coughing. It sounds terrible and it nearly doubles him over with the sheer force. Watching it hurts Arthur’s heart.

“Merlin?” Arthur says, walking carefully into the room. Merlin looks up, eyes big and blue. There is no recognition and Arthur has to bite his lip to stop from saying something stupid.

“Yes?” Merlin’s voice is whispery, more air than sound. “Who’re you?”

“My name is Arthur Pendragon.” There is still no recognition from Merlin who is looking at him quizzically.

“So I _don’t_ know you.”

“No.” Arthur smiles a little. “Mind if I come in?”

Merlin hesitates for a moment, staring, weighing Arthur up with his eyes. Arthur unconsciously holds his breath, waiting for the verdict. Finally Merlin tilts his head towards a chair at his beside.

“Be my guest.”

“Thank you.”

“So, Mr Pendragon –“

“Arthur,” he interrupts.

“Arthur, then. How did you know my name?”

“Doctor Hyatt,” Arthur improvises, glancing at a book lying in Merlin’s lap. “I hope you don’t mind but I sometimes come to read to patients in my spare time.”

Merlin’s eyebrows climb right up his face when he hears that and his disbelieving expression would have made Gaius proud. Arthur has to fight off the urge to laugh.

“Dr Hyatt didn’t mention you.”

“If you’d rather not, I understand, but –“

“No,” Merlin says, eyes softening. “It’s a… lovely offer, Arthur. I would like that.”

As Arthur takes up the book, finger holding Merlin’s place, Merlin’s body suddenly doubles over in a fit of coughs, shoulders shaking. He’s wheezing, gasping for breath and Arthur is powerless to do anything but watch. When the coughing lets up, Merlin falls back against his pillows weakly, totally exhausted. His eyes flutter shut.

“Should I go?” Arthur asks worriedly. Merlin flaps a hand at him and grins. It’s beautiful and fleeting.

“Don’t be daft,” he wheezes. “You came to read. So read.”

Arthur does as he’s told.

*

That’s how it begins, this eleventh incarnation. Arthur goes to the hospital several times a week to visit Merlin and read his poncy, intellectual books about French philosophers. Merlin only rolls his eyes at the barbs, content to lie back and listen. Arthur learns that Merlin had been a university professor in this life, teaching literature theory with a particular interest in Foucault. In turn, Arthur tells Merlin of his life with Jenny and his four beautiful, exasperating girls. He tells Merlin about Cath and her little boy Lucas, his grandson, about Miriam’s head in the clouds and Lydia’s feet on the ground; tells him about Becca, his late-in-life surprise. He talks about life at sea. Merlin seems to find all of it fascinating and likes to call Arthur ‘Colonel Pendragon’. Their interactions are quiet and, embarrassed though Arthur is to use the word, sweet.

He also learns why Merlin is in the hospital.

“I’m dying,” Merlin says mater of fact one afternoon, no preamble.

“What?” Arthur is thrown from his reading of Foucault’s _Madness_ _and Civilization_ \- which isn’t hard, the book is really taxing on the old brain cells. He gathers his thoughts. “I thought it might be something… bad. But. What is it?”

Merlin gives him a look that says he wants to trust Arthur but isn’t quite so sure he can. He shrugs and looks away.

“Well now, where to begin?” He wears a crooked smile, not bitter but not nice. “How about pneumocystis pneumonia? Brought on by my immunodeficiency.”

“Immunodeficiency?”

“Being HIV positive does that.”

“You’re HIV positive?” Arthur hates that he can’t do anything more than parrot back Merlin’s words. The other man closes his fingers around the hospital blanket, knuckles turning white. His breath is so shallow and rattles quietly on every intake.

“Doctors say I’ve been HIV positive for a long time. Didn’t know until I got PCP pneumonia.” He shrugs and glances up at Arthur looking tired. “Too late now. Full blown AIDS.”

Arthur doesn’t know what to say to that. He’s never been good with expressing his emotions to others, not in any of his lives. Instead he puts aside the book and reaches forward to take hold of Merlin’s bony hand. It feels brittle in his. Merlin is giving him yet another look, but this time he isn’t debating Arthur’s trustworthiness, he’s already come to a decision. As Merlin curls his fingers to mesh with Arthur’s, he rather thinks Merlin ruled in his favour. The words suddenly come to Arthur, like an echo from the past.

“It’s never too late,” Arthur whispers into Merlin ear.  Merlin’s smile is blinding.

*

He brings the girls, one by one, to meet Merlin. They all take to him in their unique ways. Liddy arrives in a breeze of level-headedness that confounds Arthur, as she asks Merlin question after question about some of the most boring topics in the world (because really, who cares about global economics?), but Merlin likes the attention, smiling as Liddy brings out a filofax with colour-coordinated tabs and begins to fill in the dates and times of when she can make it back to visit him.

Cathy brings freshly baked blueberry muffins and chocolate chip cookies to fatten Merlin up. The fresh scent of sugar and butter chases away the smell of hospitals for a while and Arthur is grateful for that. She tells Merlin about her baking and her boy. Lucas isn’t allowed to come, not with Merlin’s PCP, but Arthur slips a photo of the blond toddler from his wallet and gives it to Merlin. His family will always involve Merlin – somehow, always – and so he shares what he has because Merlin seems to have no one, not this time. Merlin’s fingers tremor as he holds the image, looking at it with bright eyes.

“The spitting image of his grandpa,” Merlin whispers.

When Miriam drops by, twenty minutes late as per usual, she’s wearing the most ridiculous getup of canary-yellow chiffon. If Jenny had been there to see it, Arthur is sure she’d be laughing her butt off. Being around Miriam is like being around the sun – she exudes passion and heat and intensity. Merlin almost looks healthy again, a hint of colour staining his cheeks as they argue about contemporary literature. Most of it’s lost on Arthur but he’s happy to sit back and watch.

Then there’s Becca – his clumsy little activist. Currently she’s gone vegan, much to Arthur’s bewilderment. What’s wrong with meat?

“Why can’t you eat burgers like a normal person?” he complains. Becca rolls her eyes conspiratorially at Merlin.

“Daddy, we’ve been over this. I don’t agree with rearing animals to facilitate our greed. We have plenty without mass slaughter and cruelty. Besides, I don’t even _like_ meat.”

“Plenty of people are vegetarian or vegan,” Merlin interjects, with a smile. “Including me.”

“Aw hell. You too?”

“’Fraid so. Been vegetarian since I was twenty-one”

“Oh dad, come on! It’s not so bad.”

“Like the time I bought you a silk scarf for your birthday and you went screaming for the hills?”

“Not this _again_ ,” Becca huffs. She turns to Merlin. “He forgot that I don’t wear silk and, I swear, all I asked was if he’d kept the receipt. He won't let it go.”

“In my day –“

“Oh shush, daddy. You’re from, like, the dark ages.” Both Arthur and Merlin laugh at this, though, Arthur thinks wryly, for different reasons. He wonders if Merlin will ever remember. It’s getting harder not to ask, not to reminisce with Merlin about those days when he was King and Merlin his sorcerer, his servant, friend, lover.

Of all the girls, Arthur thinks Merlin takes to Becca the best. She’s chatty and sweet and clumsy – not unlike Merlin himself. She’s not thrown by Merlin’s insistent, heart-breaking coughing, and likes to take his hand in hers and natter about anything and everything. She tells him about university and her dream to go to drama school - Becca blushes at the latter, sincere but self-conscious.

“I know it’s hard to get into acting,” she flicks a look at Arthur. He’s heard it all before. He’s not against the thought of her acting, just her getting her heart broken. “But I really want to give it a chance.”

“Having dreams gives us a reason to live,” Merlin says with a smile, gaze locked on Arthur. Arthur stares into his blues eyes for a long while before excusing himself from the room, pretending he needs the toilet. He doesn’t want them to see his wet eyes.

*

When the doctors come to Arthur to say they think it’s time for Merlin to get ready, that the end is approaching, Arthur wants to throw things at their heads and bellow in his most threatening Colonel voice. All this modern medicine and nothing changes.

He talks to Merlin about what the doctors suggest. They want him to go home and enjoy the last vestiges of his life before he goes completely. Merlin looks resigned, long fingers running across the cover of yet another of his poncy books.

“Would you prefer me to come live with you or you to come to mine?” Arthur asks matter-of-factly. His question startles a look from Merlin.

“What do you mean?”

“Who is there to look after you, Merlin?” It’s a serious question.

“I’m sure a few old friends would visit. I could… get a live-in nurse.”

“No. I won’t have you alone or with a stranger. Either way, _I_ will be with you so just make your decision. Mine or yours.”

There’s a twinkle in Merlin’s eyes at the words. Arthur mentally kicks himself; he hadn’t meant for it to sound like a chat up line. Merlin doesn’t make a choice right then but reaches a hand to touch Arthur’s face, rub a thumb across his cheek. The tips of his fingers are cold.

“Do this with all the dying queers you read for?”

“Don’t be thick. You know I don’t read to anyone else.”

“Monogamous reading? I feel special.”

“ _Mer_ lin,” Arthur says exasperated.

“ _Arthur_.” Merlin is smiling a wide, guileless smile that makes Arthur’s heart skip.

“You haven’t answered my question.”

Merlin slips his hand into Arthur’s. “I would prefer to be in my own home, my own bed, when I go.”

“Good. That’s settled. We’ll live at yours.”

They're silent for a while, then,

“Anyone ever told you?” Fingers squeeze Arthur’s. “You’re a royal prat.”

“It might have been mentioned,” Arthur says, voice thick.

*

Cathy helps Arthur pack some clothes and a few books in an old suitcase and load it into her car. When they get to Merlin’s house – a tiny bungalow on the edge of town – Cathy turns off the engine and just sits, looking at her hands clenched on the steering wheel at eleven o’clock and two. Arthur knows that look, Jenny used to give it to him when she wanted to talk about something he didn’t. Arthur shifts uneasily.

“Dad,” she begins, voice low and serious. “What’s this about?”

“What is what about?”

“Don’t give me that. You know perfectly well what I’m talking about. _This_ , Dad. What is _this_? Don’t think I don’t like Merlin, we’ve all grown to love him, all of us.” She shrugs helplessly. “We just don’t understand where it all came from.”

Arthur doesn’t say anything at first. He can hear Lucas’s sleepy breathing from the back and it makes him feel desperately tired. Arthur glances at his grandson, deep asleep in his car seat, chin resting on his chest and tiny hands clenched into fists.

“Dad?”

“Honestly, Cath? I can’t give you an answer because I don’t know what to say. I have to do this for Merlin. And for me. I just have to.” He knows it isn’t sufficient, but Cathy smiles in a sad, knowing sort of way. Her fingers squeeze his, just like her mother would have done.

“Okay,” she says. “Okay.”

 

*

Merlin seems embarrassed by his humble home, which is dusty and stacked to the rafters with books and papers. It reminds Arthur strongly of Geoffrey’s library in Camelot. Merlin’s lanky frame hunches in, making him look stooped and so much older than sixty.

“Welcome home,” Merlin says with an embarrassed smile, flopping onto the sofa.

Arthur makes them something to eat. It’s only corned beef on toast (what the Yanks had called ‘Shit on a Shingle’), a recipe from his seadog days. He regales Merlin with yet more tales of his time on the _HMS Shield_.

“Back when I was nothing more than a low ranking commissioned officer, I was asked to take the helm by this utter prick, Lieutenant Wicks. We were approaching this oil tanker straight on, so Wicks ordered me to turn the _Shield_ hard starboard. Then he left me there with no further instructions – to make a bloody cup of tea! I knew it was wrong to keep turning starboard, but I’d not been given the command to stop. And in the navy,  you follow orders. So, I just stood there, holding the wheel for an age. Then our Captain came running onto the bridge, face as red as hell, screaming at me and asking why the entire ship was turning in a big fucking circle. When he heard my orders he chewed Wicks a new one.” Arthur laughs for a moment before turning sober again. “Funny how life goes. Years later, Wicks ended up on the _HMS Hardy_ … under me. Still as stupid as you like.”

Merlin is chuckling at the story but it turns into great hacking coughs in a blink. Arthur is out of his chair, hovering around Merlin, trying to do something – anything! – helpful.

“Stop fussing, you prat,” Merlin says. “I’m fine. Honestly.”

Arthur moves away reluctantly, collecting their dirty dishes to wash. He keeps a close eye on Merlin as he cleans, watching the man potter around his home, shifting stacks of books and making new stacks, seemingly at random. When he gets tired he picks up several stapled sheets of dog-eared paper from his desk and starts reading.

“Anything good,” Arthur asks, easing carefully into the winged back chair by the sofa.

“Yeah,” Merlin’s voice is a little chocked as his eyes flit over the words. “An essay by Rowan Williams.”

“What? The Archbishop of Canterbury?”

Merlin nods. “It’s called ‘The Body’s Grace’. Beautiful. About love. About understanding yourself through the eyes of another. Here,” he pauses before reading, voice breathy, “ _I cannot make sense of myself without others, cannot speak until I've listened, cannot love myself without being the object of love or enjoy myself without being the cause of joy._ ”

Arthur ducks his head, resting his chin on his chest, studying his fingers spread across his cords. Arthur thinks Merlin must have been a wonderful lecturer. Even with his failing voice, he pauses in all the right places, the cadence is perfect. Merlin’s a good orator; Arthur a good listener.

“ _Thinking about sexuality in its fullest implications involves thinking about entering into a sense of oneself beyond the customary imagined barrier between the "inner" and the "outer" the private and the shared. We are led into the knowledge that our identity is being made in the relations of bodies, not by the private exercise of will or fantasy: we belong with and to each other, not to our "private" selves (as Paul said of mutual sexual commitment), and yet are not instruments for each other's gratification._ ” Merlin puts down the essay, eyes red from un-shed tears.

Arthur knows he’s missing a lot of subtleties in those nuanced words, but he understands the heart of it, the uncomfortable and inevitable connection human beings must make in order to be whole.

“Merlin,” he begins, tentative.

“Yeah?”

“Where’s your family?”

“I don’t’ really have one. My parents are long dead, I never married or had a lasting partner. No children obviously.”

“What about siblings?” There is a long pause from Merlin, his lips moving with no words.

“I had a brother. Marc.”

“Had?”

“He no longer considers himself related to me. We fought… years ago. He couldn’t understand why I’d chosen to be the way I am. As though being gay was a choice – like choosing to paint my bedroom eggshell blue, or shave off all my hair.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I think it’s time for bed,” Merlin says, placing the cache of papers on the low coffee table. They walk in silence to Merlin’s shabby bedroom. Arthur turns down the bed – he’d already put on clean sheets – and helps Merlin get into his flannel pyjamas, as gentle as he used to be when he put his girls to bed when they were sick.

“Do you need anything? Glass of water? Another blanket?”

“Just… lie beside me?”

Arthur puts on his own pyjamas and slips into the bed beside Merlin, face to face. Merlin smiles though his eyes are already closed.

“Goodnight Arthur.”

Arthur leans forward and places a chaste kiss on Merlin’s wrinkled forehead. “Night, Merlin.”

*

“Dad? Can I ask a question?”

“You just did.”

“Daddy!”

“What?”

“I’m serious.”

“Okay, okay. Shoot.”

“Are you gay?”

“Wha-?”

“I mean, it’s totally fine with me if you are. Liddy and Miriam and Cath and I all know you loved mum a lot, we’ve never for a second thought you didn’t, but I dunno, seeing you with Merlin is different. You love him too. So, I just wondered if you were and if you needed, well, support or permission from us or something.”

“Permission? You – ”

“No! Sorry. I don’t mean that in a patronising way. Just thought maybe you were holding back telling us because you didn’t know how we’d react. We’re all fine with it, so long as you’re happy.”

“Child would you hold your tongue for a moment! Jesus H Christ. I’m not gay. Not that I know of, anyway.”

“But, what about Merlin?”

“ _Becca_ … Yes, I love Merlin very much and I _don’t know_ if that makes me gay or not. Don’t be so ready to put a label on everything. Why must there be a label for love? It just – is.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you – I just, I just wanted you to know that we support and love you no matter what choices you make.”

“You didn’t hurt me, Becca. I’m going to go wake Merlin. He needs to eat something, take his painkillers.”

“Sure Dad. Okay.”

*

Merlin is getting weaker, much weaker. Arthur can see him slipping away, fading with each new morning, pale and otherworldly. The coughing persists through the nights and Arthur sits up with Merlin, rubbing his back and watching him tremble in exhaustion. In the wee hours of the morning, when it’s clear that there’s no more sleep to be had, Arthur often takes up a book at random and starts to read. He’s not entirely sure Merlin listens, but he carries on regardless. It's all he can do.

“Arthur?” Merlin whispers against Arthur’s shoulder at four o’clock one morning, bringing Arthur to a stop halfway through _One Hundred Years of Solitude_.

“Yes?”

“Do you believe in magic?” The question startles Arthur, jolts him awake with a suddenly pounding, aching heart. He glances at Merlin’s face but can’t see anything new – no sudden realisation, no recognition.

“Yes,” he says, because he does. Merlin grins and kisses the skin of Arthur’s neck gently; warm feverish lips making Arthur shiver.

“Good.”

“Why do you ask?” Arthur can feel Merlin shrug.

“Not sure. Seemed important,” he murmurs and they laps into silence

“Merlin?”

“Mm?”

“I love you.”

“I know,” there’s a smile in his voice. “I love you too.”

“I wish... so many things. I only just found you.”

“You told me once that it’s never too late.”

“Yes.”

“You were right.”

*

_Dr Merlin Emrys, 60, was released from his suffering on May 5, 2010. A Professor of Literature Theory at Bristol University, Dr Emrys was a well respected scholar and critic of Foucault. He leaves behind one brother, Marc Emrys, and many friends. A memorial service will be held on May 15, 2010 at St Mary’s-by-the-Spire, hosted by the Pendragon family. They ask that no flowers be sent to the funeral home, but prefer that donations are made to the National AIDS Trust in Dr Emrys’s name._

**Author's Note:**

> The essay I have Merlin read by Dr Rowan Williams is real and can be read in its entirety online [here](http://www.igreens.org.uk/bodys_grace.htm). It is one of the most beautiful, clever and subtle pieces of writing on sexuality and religion (in the context of Christianity) that I have ever had the pleasure to read. Also, I confess to knowing little about HIV/AIDS. Writing this has been an eye-opener and sort of broke my heart. I hope any of you who know and love someone with HIV/AIDS don’t think I was making light of the topic.  
> Written for [](http://binglejells.livejournal.com/profile)[**binglejells**](http://binglejells.livejournal.com/) because I adore her and promised to write her some tragedy.


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